By Bernard Sprunt (ex Ping Wo)

Each Anzac Day is a reaffirmation
Of this nation's sorrow and pride,
As with gratitude it remembers and honours,
Its sons who fought, and the many who died.

In every corner of this wide country,
Frail old men, many bent with pain,
Are carefully polishing their medals,
Before marching with old comrades again.

Each year the roll-call is shorter,
Some faces seen last year won't be there.
Their epitaph, the verdict that "they were good blokes",
And the sadness of their passing all Australia will share.

By battalions, ships and squadrons they muster,
Though just fragments of war time strength remain,
Instead of rifles, walking sticks are now carried,
As they dress ranks, by the right, once again.

As the pipes skirl, and the bands strike up,
Backs straighten and white heads are held high,
And the crowds lining the route wave and cheer,
As they watch the old warriors march by.

Though passing years have sapped their strength,
And they have to struggle to maintain the pace,
In their minds they are briefly reliving their youth,
Where there was no challenge which they could not face.

Anzac Day mirrors the soul of our nation,
And shows the price it was willing to pay,
To secure our freedom, knowing if it was lost,
That soul would sicken, and would wither away,

LEST WE FORGET